


lost love (sweeter when it's finally found)

by melodiousmadrigals



Series: wondertrev bingo 2020 [2]
Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: (major character REVIVAL), (you can fight me on that), Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fluff, Hades is the least problematic of the Greek Gods, Steve Trevor Lives, pure fluff, the opposite of major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodiousmadrigals/pseuds/melodiousmadrigals
Summary: Diana accidentally saves her uncle, and he, in turn, decides to bestow her with a gift—but it's actually a good one?Mostly fluff.
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor
Series: wondertrev bingo 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739011
Comments: 71
Kudos: 204
Collections: Wondertrev Lockout Bingo





	1. Hades' gift

**Author's Note:**

> no beta we die valiantly // characters not mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Steve's resurrection (again, lol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based loosely on a speculative tumblr post (but adapted for present rather than WW84). Another Steve resurrection for the pile, but later in-universe chapters will fulfill other prompts. Set in a covid-free AU because I'm tired.

At the beginning of her mission, Diana didn't set out to save her uncle. That was just a nice bonus to thwarting another villain. 

She's honestly not surprised that Hades is still alive; in fact, she's long suspected that more of the Gods lived than the Amazons' stories let on. The thing that surprises her is that he got so badly caught up in this particular—and relatively minor—villain's scheme. (It's frankly a bit unbecoming.) 

"I rather appreciate your assistance, dear Niece," Hades had said, after she'd freed him. 

"It was a happy accident," Diana had said in response, as truthfully as she could. 

"Still," Hades had replied loftily, waving a hand. "It will not go unrewarded."

Diana, who was no stranger to the misguided things the Gods often thought of as "gifts", had tried to protest, but Hades had disappeared without so much as a flash of light before she could get the sentiment out. 

She had gone around for several days extremely wary, but in the end, nothing had come of it. Another lofty, broken promise by a flighty god is, after all, nothing new. Indeed, the lack of "reward" is probably in and of itself a better reward than any he could offer. 

* * *

That had been a decade ago, right before she had begun her involvement with what would become the Justice League. So much has happened since then that she's forgotten about the whole encounter, hasn't thought about it in years. She has little reason—or desire—to ponder what Hades' idea of a reward might have been. 

So when he shows up in her office at the Louvre one stormy night, it takes her a second to place _why_ he's showed up. 

"Ah, Diana," he says, "how lovely to see you again." As if they've just casually bumped into each other at the market, instead of the fact that he had to manifest into her office with purpose for the encounter to take place. 

"Uncle," she says, warily, because even though she is the Godkiller, there's no reason to go around angering them on purpose. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" 

"Well, you see, I'm afraid I promised you a reward for freeing me some time ago, and never delivered."— _Oh_ , thinks Diana, _oh no._ —"The paperwork down in the underworld is horrendous, you see, and there's been an uptick due to the new trend to not vaccinate, but I've finally dug myself out of the hole the accumulated while I was gone plus the current bit, and I've come to make good on my promise."

Diana tries to be subtle in her rejection. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Uncle, there's really no need—"

"Nonsense! It's a done deed; I've just come to inform you that you'll find it in your apartment when you return home." 

"Oh, well…thank you," Diana fumbles for her words, trying to be civil, even though she dreads what she'll find. It'll be a three-headed puppy, or a cursed obsidian scrying bowl, or a pomegranate tree whose fruit explodes, or something equally difficult and bizarre. 

"Think nothing of it!" says Hades lightly, either ignoring or oblivious to her discomfort. "And now I must away—it's my night off and Persephone's waiting. I really only popped up to inform you. Do head home soon, won't you?" 

And then, just like that, he's gone, leaving Diana with an empty office and a cluster headache. 

She files away a few papers and then sets out for home, too, because she really needs to deal with whatever Hades' gift is. When she reaches her apartment, she says a hasty _bon soir_ to the doorman, and then unsheathes her sword in the lift. She's not about to walk in unprepared. 

She enters as stealthily as possible, clearing each space as she goes along, until she rounds the corner into her living room— 

—where she promptly drops her sword, letting it clang noisily on the floor, a true testament to just how shocked she is. 

Because there, on her couch, looking every bit like he belongs there—like this is _normal_ —is Steve Trevor. 

* * *

Time slows to a standstill, or maybe her mind just goes into overdrive. It's been more than thirty-five years since she saw him. Since he died, a second time. Since her heart _broke_ a second time.

Her first response is shock, pure and unadulterated. 

Her second is that she's not sure that she can do this again. 

When she got Steve back, only to lose him again, her heart didn't just break. It shattered, shattered into a million little shards, some of which might have drifted away into the wind. She spent years trying to glue the bits back together, and she did it, she really did, but she thinks that it might be a little misshapen and lumpy. A valiant effort, but what's left is not quite whole. 

And this—this right here is exactly the sort of present a god would unwittingly give. A double edged sword, just as likely to harm you as help you. Diana's not sure that she can take losing him again. Not sure that she could recover from that pain, a third time. Not sure that the risk is worth what's left of her heart. 

Watching him die, giving him up, seeing him sacrifice himself was the hardest thing she's ever had to do, and she's not equipped to do it again. 

It has been perhaps a second since the sword clanged to the ground, and she's decided that she can't let him in, not again. 

From across the room, Steve looks up. "Surprise," he says, smiling. His big blue eyes are crinkled at the edges, his grin is pulled just a little lopsided. 

One word. All it takes is one word, and her resolve crumbles. She can't give that up, not again. She'll do whatever she has to in order to keep him safe, this time. 

Steve will always be worth the risk, the pain.

* * *

Diana takes a steadying breath. 

"Welcome to Paris, my love." 

He doesn't move, but does say, in a far-away voice, "The last time I was here was the autumn of '16." 

"It might be a little different." 

Steve ducks his head, a little smile on his face at her cheek. "Look, I know it's been a long time," says Steve. " _Again._ I can go, if you—"

"Stay." 

He locks eyes with her, and the world comes to a swirling halt. It's just them, and there's too much distance after so long. Like the pull of a magnetic field, they're across the room, colliding together, holding on tight. 

She has Steve back. 

* * *

"I don't really remember the afterlife," Steve says, sometime later, when the first wave of emotion has subsided a little, and they're properly coherent again. "I could sort of feel time passing, er, abstractly, but I couldn't tell you what happened. And then yesterday—I think it was yesterday, it feels like it might be yesterday—I was summoned to Hades' palace, and they did—all sorts of things to me. Sort of—uploaded things to my brain. I know all sorts of things about the last hundred years. The last decade. My memories are my own, but it's like they gave me a crash course on everything else." 

He blinks, then looks at her imploringly. 

"Like—computers. Can you even believe the things that they do?" 

"No," she says, softly, because it's true: she's lived for _millennia_ , and it's just in the past few years that technology has taken off in unprecedented ways.

"They seem unfathomable to me," he continues, almost dazed. "But I know exactly how they work. I can code." Then, "I know what coding _is_ ," he amends with awe. 

His eyes go a little unfocused. 

"Anyways, the next thing I knew, I was sitting on your couch and—corporeal, I guess? I suddenly had to breath. Which—that's not something you really think about doing, but I guess I didn't have to in the Underworld, because it had stopped being second nature." 

Diana almost chokes, because keeping him alive is going to be harder than she thought if he's already _forgetting to breathe._

Steve must see her expression, because he backpedals. "I mean, it was easy to start doing again! I love breathing." He winces immediately, recognizes it as overkill, veers onto another subject. "Do you know why I got brought back this time? No one said."

Diana exhales roughly. "Nothing quite so dramatic as last time. Hades decided he owed me a favor, and this was how he chose to follow through." 

"Huh. That sounds like it could stick." 

"That's certainly my goal, yes." She reaches out and twines their fingers together, and he gives her hand a light squeeze, a pressure she returns. 

"Tell me about this you," he says, after a pause. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, I've fallen hopelessly in love with you twice, and I'm looking forward to doing it all over again. Tell me about this version of you." 

He drags their hands up and kisses her fingers, and she lets her eyes flutter shut. 

She thinks about all the things that she could say. Her stint in Istanbul. The job she took at the Louvre. The formation of the Justice League. But what of this is intrinsic to her, and something Steve wouldn't already know, or suspect? "I got very involved in woodworking in the early two-thousands," Diana says, and lets the conversation go from there. 

* * *

Outside, Paris thrums loud and vibrant, a city full of light and liveliness. Inside the apartment it is quieter, but for the soft sound of their voices, late into the night. 

For once, a God has gotten a gift spectacularly right. 


	2. big spoon, little spoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fluff
> 
> 5 times Diana and Steve were disgustingly cute and very happy (+0 times that they weren't because this is fluff). Seriously, just fluffiness in various scenarios.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These take place maybe a year or two after Hades deposits Steve in Diana's living room.

**_i._ **

Even in the modern age, Diana remains partial to keeping track of things the old fashioned way. She has a Google calendar like every professional, of course, but all her meetings are also written neatly in a little diary she keeps; her personal life and JL extracurriculars are also neatly coded and transcribed in their own colors in the planner. She writes grocery lists and to-do lists on spare bits of paper, and takes meeting notes in a leatherbound notebook, unless specifically required to be working on an electronic document. She finds there's something satisfying about seeing the ink in front of her. 

Yesterday, for example, she jotted a quick to-do list on a sheet of notepaper, and then tacked it to the fridge, so she'd remember to do items three (water succulents on the kitchen and bathroom window sills) and five (check cream level after Steve finishes his coffee) before she leaves in the morning. 

She glances over the other eleven items, mentally ticking off what can be completed today while she's running errands on her way to work, and her eyes land on the last line. 

There, scrawled in curling letters under her own tight font, is an addition that certainly wasn't there last night: _14\. Kiss your husband_. 

She smiles. That one she'll have no problem checking off. 

Steve's out on the terrace, still sipping his coffee, halfway through a crossword puzzle. She swoops in without warning, dropping a quick kiss to his lips, and then another to the top of his head, before whipping out her list and checking off number fourteen. 

"Wait, come back," says Steve, setting down the paper. 

"I don't know; I'm having a very productive morning and I've already checked it off," Diana teases. "I might have to move on to other things." 

"No fair," he pouts. 

"The post office _is_ open already," she continues blithely, brandishing the to-do list. "I should probably go there directly." 

In a flash, Steve has leaned forward and snatched the list right out of her hands. 

"Steve!" she cries, and lunges for it, but by the time their little scuffle is over and it's back in her hands, _15\. Let your husband kiss you_ is scrawled messily along the bottom. 

"Well," she says, smirking despite herself, "if the list says so, I can't argue." 

"I'm glad you've seen sense," says Steve, leaning in with a gleam in his eye. 

She doesn't manage to tick anything else off before work—ends up rushing not to be late, in fact—but she's always felt it's important to be thorough when completing tasks. 

* * *

**_ii._ **

It's rainy and gross, the weather just cold enough that it's unpleasant, but not so cold that the rain has turned into snow or sleet. Unfortunately, it's a Thursday.

When Diana's alarm goes off, she groans, and sticks her head under a pillow, and then pulls the duvet over them both. 

"Play hooky with me," Steve says sleepily from next to her. 

"I cannot just skip work." 

"And how many sick days do you have accrued?" asks Steve, who knows perfectly well that the number is high, because Diana doesn't get sick the way mortals do. 

Diana mumbles something from under the pillow. 

"What was that?" 

"...a lot," she says, grudgingly. "But that would be lying; I'm not sick." 

"Mental health days are a thing now," reasons Steve. "And how many projects are due today?" 

"You know perfectly well there's nothing big until next Wednesday." 

Steve burrows under the duvet, so that they're face to face and hidden from the outside world.

"Are we going to do anything productive?" 

"Not a damn thing." 

"Yes, I suppose that does sound nice." 

"Excellent! I lie for a living. I'll telephone both our jobs." 

Steve gets up, and Diana rolls into the warm spot he left behind. She can hear the soft murmur of his voice though the wall, and five minutes later he's slipping back into bed, a self-satisfied smile on his face. 

"All set." 

She snuggles into him, and they fall back to sleep to the patter of the rain. 

*

When Diana wakes up the second time, it's raining harder still, but there's the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Steve's sitting up, still in pajamas, reading. 

She must've been more tired than she thought, because it's rare that Steve wakes up first.

Diana blinks back the sleep in her eyes and takes a moment to appreciate the picture Steve paints, with his tousled hair and reading glasses. He looks soft and sleepy and perfect, and suddenly she's extremely glad he convinced her to take the day off. 

Steve glances over at her, and looks mildly surprised to find she's awake. 

He bookmarks his page with care, and then leans over and grabs a steaming mug that was outside her line of vision, offering it to her. 

"I did not even hear you get up to make coffee."

"You clearly needed the sleep," Steve says. 

"Maybe." Diana sighs, "I suppose I should not lay in bed _all_ day." 

"Then I've got just the thing." He offers her a hand, and she lets him lead her out of the bedroom. 

In their living room, instead of the normal furniture configuration, there's a glowing mass of sheets. It seems that Steve has taken it upon himself to make a blanket fort, and has decorated it with a string of lights he must have found at the back of the closet. She really can't believe she slept through this. 

"You have been looking at Pinterest again, haven't you?" 

"No comment." 

"It's lovely." 

"There's nothing inside, yet. I thought we could do that bit together." 

It's perfect, so she says so. 

They pull some cushions off the couch and drag their duvet in too, and all of a sudden, the blanket fort is complete and they have a wonderful little rainy-day nest. 

"Breakfast in blanket fort?" 

She bites her lip and nods. "But in a minute," she adds, catching his hand in hers before he can move away, and for a moment, they lay on their backs, enjoying the flickering lights. 

* * *

**_iii._ **

Diana walks into a massacre. 

"What happened here?" Deep red stains cover half the visible surfaces. 

Steve looks up, guiltily. 

"I spilled cold water on one of the hot jars, and it exploded." 

"So just to confirm, none of it is your blood?" 

"It's one hundred percent cherry preserves." 

Diana breathes a sigh of relief. "That is far easier to fix," she says, slipping her arms around his waist from the back and swooping in to kiss his cheek. 

Steve spins in her arms to face her. "It was a rookie mistake. With the amount of jam I've made in my lives, it should never have happened." 

Diana sweeps a bit of the exploded cherry preserve off of his cheek with her thumb, and then ducks out of his hold to taste it. 

"It is excellent." 

Steve grins affably, and rinses both his hands and the rag he's holding. "Good, there are a dozen more jars of it cooling in the dining room." 

"Only a dozen?" asks Diana in genuine surprise, because Steve has been known to go a little overboard when it comes to making jams. 

"Plus a dozen each of raspberry and blueberry preserves."

"Ahh," she says, nodding. That makes a great deal more sense. 

"I already cleaned up the glass, and was going to wipe everything down and start on the peaches. Care to join me?" 

Diana knows next to nothing about canning and preserving and jellying, but she missed it last year when the Justice League called her out of town unexpectedly. There's no way she's missing it again this year. 

"Tell me where to start," she says, smiling. 

"With clothes you don't mind getting dirty, for one. As I've clearly demonstrated," Steve jokes, gesturing at his aproned (and sticky) body. 

Diana glances down at her several-hundred euro suit, and then makes for the bedroom. "I'll only be a moment." 

"I've got nothing but time!" Steve calls after her, jovially. 

When she comes back out—now dressed in an ancient t-shirt that she's stolen back from Steve (after he stole it from her last year) and jeans so soft they're practically threadbare—she pauses in the doorframe, watching Steve. He's mostly mopped up the cherry preserves, and he's humming as he towels up the bit that somehow managed to get on the backsplash. 

He's probably been at this for hours, and despite the mishap, he's still in an excellent mood. It makes her smile softly. 

He catches her eye just as he hits the chorus of the soft '80s song he's singing, and he pulls her behind the island and spins her around. She laughs and plays along, and they rock back and forth a few times, Diana joining him on the last chorus as he hands her an apron. 

"If you want to start pitting the peaches, I'll finish cleaning the pot." 

They chat about their days as they work (Diana gets a play-by-play of the events leading up to the exploding jar, and Steve gets a run-down on the passive-aggressive email war she's having with the British Museum), and eventually Steve comes over to help her pit and cut the fruit. 

Once everything has been dumped into the large copper jam pot, they turn up the radio and dance around the kitchen to old music, stirring intermittently until the peach compote has simmered down and thickened enough that it's time to jar and let it set. 

"That was fun," Diana says, as they finish the washing up. Their dining room table has been completely overtaken by jams and preserves cooling in quaint-looking Mason jars, but it's worth it. 

"I'm hoping to make elderberry jam still this year, and apple jelly in the late autumn, if you'd like to join me," Steve says, a dish-towel flung over his shoulder. (It's very cute.) 

"It's a date," Diana declares, and she sees his eyes flick to her lips. 

A second later, their lips meet, slow and languid, and Diana sighs into the kiss. Steve's lips taste vaguely sweet, a little like the peach jam they'd swiped samples of while they worked, and hers probably do too. 

If Steve's lucky, he might be able to steal the t-shirt back yet this evening. 

* * *

**_iv._ **

There's tittering outside her office, which—if Diana had been paying attention—would've tipped her off twenty minutes ago to the fact that Steve is here. Her interns are a bit of a gossipy bunch this year, and they've all taken a shine to Steve. (Apparently he's the most interesting thing to happen to the office, and the presence of the seemingly straight-laced Mme. Prince's charming significant other is always cause for news in a way little else is.) 

As it happens, she's in the middle of updating the care manuals for several artifacts that are about to be going on loan, and misses all the signs until there's a distinctive tap on her door, and Steve lets himself in. 

She's always pleased to see him, and doubly so since he's been away for the past ten days on a mission with ARGUS. 

"Hello, my love," she says, and leans forward over the desk to give him a quick kiss, before returning to her paper. 

A moment later, she looks up, doing a spectacular double take. "You are home early!" exclaims Diana, moving out from behind her desk to give him a proper hug and another kiss. 

Steve laughs, and kisses her a third time, on the nose. 

"We were in and out without any loose ends to take care of. It went as smoothly as could be expected." 

"I'm glad you're home." 

"Me too. Care to celebrate with a quick dinner?" 

Diana sighs. "I would love to, but these need to be sent out early tomorrow morning." 

"Oh, come on. You need to eat at some point. Besides," says Steve. "I've still got the time dilator we found on mission if you need to get the reports done later." 

"Steve," she scolds, although there's very little heat to it. "You are _not_ considering used banned tech just for a little extra time with me tonight."

"To have dinner with you at a reasonable hour? I absolutely am." He looks at her imploringly. "We'll just slip out to the little Thai place you love and be back in an hour or two." 

Diana has known she was going to give in from the moment he suggested it, but she still scrunches her face a little. "Oh, all right." Steve's victorious smile is actually adorable, and they pass a lovely couple of hours catching up on the last few days. 

They get back to her office around 21h00, and instead of leaving, Steve pulls out his laptop. 

"You don't have to," Diana protests. "It's late."

Steve just shrugs. "I need to work on my mission report anyways." 

Diana acquiesces, simply because she's not-so-secretly pleased to have the company. 

(They only have to use the time dilator once.) 

Later, after Diana has everything squared away, they decide to walk home, despite the distance and the hour. 

They amble along the Seine, arm in arm. The soft light of Paris never gets old, especially the way the hazy reflections ripple in the river. For all the madness of the afternoon, it's been a good day. Diana leans her head on Steve's shoulder, and they stroll on.

* * *

**_v._ **

Midway through her diatribe, Diana flops down in front of him, and leans against his legs, seeking comfort in her frustration. Steve's hands immediately find her hair, and he gently starts rubbing circles into her scalp as she continues the impassioned rant that began a while ago in the kitchen, "—and it is infuriating, because it is not my department, you understand? The only recourse is to file an official complaint, but that could take ages and ages and until then, they are using an outdated method that could potentially cause lasting damage to the artifacts!" 

Steve hums sympathetically when Diana pauses to take a sip (well, a swig) of wine, and he splits a bit of her hair to start braiding as she adds, "These are pieces of cultural history, Steve. They should be treated with the utmost respect so that they last for _generations_ to come to tell our history, and instead Michel is going to keep using a compound that will eventually compromise the integrity of the color!" 

Steve knows there's a lot of complicated inter-departmental politics and squabbles that mean there's no good way to address the problem. 

"—and the way he treats Sophie!" Diana huffs, a clear indication that they're back to Michel—a frequent source of frustration—but on a personal note this time.

"Hair tie," interjects Steve, and without missing a beat, she flicks one off her wrist and hands it to him so he can finish off the braid neatly. 

"It is disgusting, and she does not wish to file a complaint, which I _understand_ is her choice, but it still makes me cringe. I _wish_ he would try it on me, because I would break his—" 

Diana's phone pings, cutting her off, and she sags against Steve. 

"You know you can keep going," Steve says, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice, because the content of the rant isn't funny, but the situation _is_. Several weeks ago, they'd decided to try cutting back on work talk in an effort to keep a healthier work-/home-life balance, and almost invariably, one of them blows through the artificially-imposed time limit. (For reference, Diana holds more blow-throughs, but it was him yesterday, and the day before.) "You don't actually _have_ to stop just because the timer went off." 

"It was my idea," Diana says ruefully, running her hand down the tight French braid, subconsciously checking it, "and I still maintain it is a good plan, I am just—"

"Very passionate about things you perceive to be injustices, big or small, yeah, I know," Steve grins. This isn't anything new. 

Diana twists around to face him, and rolls her eyes at his expression. "You love me for it."

"Yeah, I do," says Steve, still smiling. 

Diana sighs. "The conversation will still be here tomorrow, and I will probably still be annoyed. There is little use in continuing now."

"Unless you want to rant," Steve points out. "That's valid." 

"I do, but it will not actually make me feel _better_. It is not cathartic if it just makes me angrier," says Diana. "Best to step away."

"Want me to set up a bath?"

"No, just come cuddle with me in bed." 

"I'll never say no to that." 

"Yes, but you have to be the big spoon this time," Diana says. 

"I still won't say no, even if little spoon is by far the superior of the two." 

Her ensuing laugh rings through the apartment, and her hand skims along the plait again.

"Almost as good as Selene's," she muses, and Steve takes it as the compliment that it is: Selene is an Amazon friend known for the intricacy and skill of her braiding techniques. 

*

"Okay, one good thing about today?" prompts Steve, once they're curled up in bed. They've begun making it a habit to practice gratefulness each evening before bed. Steve read about it in a mindfulness book, and when he'd mentioned it offhandedly, Diana had immediately been on board. "Other than the fact that it's over," he adds, seeing the look on Diana's face. 

"You," says Diana, reflexively.

"You say that every night," laughs Steve.

"It does not stop being true." 

"I think it's supposed to be something different, each time. To accumulate things you're grateful for." 

Diana grumbles, but does pause to come up with something else. "The magnolia trees I pass on my walk to work," she says, finally. "They are in bloom right now, and they brighten my day." 

If Steve could answer _you,_ or even say the little smile on Diana's face as she speaks, without sounding like a hypocrite, he would. "I found a little patisserie up by the Bastille that has these lovely little raspberry pastries." 

"Mmmm," says Diana, smiling. "You do love raspberries." Then, after a pause, in a softer voice: "The fact that I get to take little things for granted, now, and pretend I do not have to specify the little things for which I am grateful. I know I am not supposed to say you, but I am grateful that you are holding me now." 

They talk drowsily for a bit, but soon succumb to sleep. 

*

Here's the thing. 

It's Steve's personal policy to never lie to Diana. That's, like, a pretty basic relationship foundation thing, and it's not something he's ever had trouble with. 

But there's one white lie that he doesn't suspect he'll ever come clean about: despite what he tells Diana, he doesn't actually think being little spoon is better than being big spoon. 

He likes to hold her, likes getting to nose at her neck and loop his arm around her waist. (Big spoon is also less prone to overheating, which does happen sometimes.) 

But Steve also knows that Diana sleeps better as big spoon, that being able to physically hold on to him in her sleep is comforting, a balm after years of night terrors and bad dreams and waking up to empty sheets. It's a small price to pay, in the end, knowing that him being the little spoon makes her happy. 

It's a secret he'll take with him to the grave.

*

Steve wakes up in the dead of night, the shadows still long over the bed, the ambient light from Paris's streetlamps a soft glow along the bottom of the windows. It's the foggy sort of waking that means it'll be easy to slip back under, a mere footnote in the night. Just before he drifts off again, he notices that he's now the little spoon. He sighs contentedly, smiles, and falls back asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted people to be able to feel happy, fluffy goodness today. Hope you enjoyed :)


	3. of communication and cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: texting
> 
> Steve and Diana adopt a cat. Steve is exceptionally bad at texting. The two converge more often than you'd think. (Aka miscommunication, but like. Low stakes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not /really a texting fic, just a very loose definition of "fulfilling" the prompt because it includes some texts, lol

_Don't be mad, but_ says the preview on her push notification from Steve's latest message. Not exactly an auspicious start, given his propensity for doing reckless things. 

Diana massages the spot between her eyebrows where tension headaches start, and decides she needs to just bite the bullet and look at the text. (It can't be _too_ bad if he's still able to text about it, right?) 

Swiping down, she taps on the message. 

_Don't be mad_ , it says _, but I found this little one abandoned, and I was *going* to ask if we could keep it but then I fell in love. Sorry, no takebacksies, but I will let you help me name it._

Attached is a picture of a fluffy black kitten curled up against Steve's chest. The angle is funny—clearly an attempt at a one-handed selfie while also holding the kitten—but it's one of the most precious things Diana has ever seen. The kitten's tail is wrapped tight enough to be gently touching its own nose. It's so adorable that Diana thinks she might cry.

The message is a little over an hour old, and Diana goes to text back when more messages come through.

 _Vet says: It's a girl!_ 🎈

Then, _She has a great big personality,_ with a photo attachment of the kitten—vet office clear in the background—looking extremely indignant at her current circumstances. 

_I look forward to meeting her,_ Diana types back. 

When Diana gets home, she finds a veritable explosion of cat toys and products across their living room and kitchen. At the epicenter, on the couch, is Steve, asleep, with a tiny little ball of black fur tucked up under his chin. If Diana had previously had any reservations about their new kitten (she hadn't, really), they would have been erased upon seeing them like this. 

She snaps a quick picture, and then goes into the kitchen, pulling out vegetables to start dicing for the evening meal. 

Twenty minutes later, Steve wanders in, the kitten now cradled against his chest. 

"She's about six weeks," says Steve. "Which is a little early, but the vet says that other than needing to be fed, she looks healthy. She didn't appreciate her first round of shots, but she _did_ appreciate the salmon pâté slurry I gave her afterwards." 

"Poor thing. She was abandoned?" 

"I think so," says Steve. "I actually saw her yesterday, hiding in the same spot, but they say not to move kittens, you know? because sometimes the mother is just off hunting. But she was alone yesterday and crying, and she was doing the same when I passed by today, and I couldn't just leave her there." 

"You did the right thing, Steve. So, about her name." 

Steve looks away guiltily, and Diana just _knows_ that he's already named the cat. 

"The vet needed a name to start her file," Steve mumbles. "I thought Bast would be cute." 

Diana purses her lips, trying not to smile. "She already has you worshipping her like a goddess; it fits." Then she breaks, and starts laughing. "I'm not mad, Steve! About the cat or the name."

Steve looks relieved, like he didn't _really_ think this would be a fight, but wasn't _sure_. They've talked about getting a pet before, but have always decided against it because of how much they travel. 

"I already talked to Aisha and Marguerite," he says, referring to the couple who lives across the hall. "They said that they would watch her when we go out of town, as long as they also get to play with her while she's still a kitten." 

"That reminds me, we should have them over for dinner this weekend. Or next, if they aren't free."

Steve shakes his head. "Next weekend's bad. I've got a work thing Friday night, and we're going to the concert at the Madeleine on Saturday with the Giraudets." 

Diana makes a little humming noise as she pulls several spice jars from the cabinet. "Am I coming to your work function?" 

"Only if you want, but I'd love to have you. You can't hit Floyd, though." 

Diana wrinkles her nose at the mention of his co-worker. "We can go out for late night kebab afterward," she decides. "As a reward for putting up with him." 

" _Génial_ ," says Steve, at the same time that Bast wakes up and meows loudly. "Apparently we haven't been paying her enough attention."

"Hello, Bast," Diana says, and the kitten meows again. 

"Here, take her; I'll finish supper," offers Steve. 

The kitten squeaks as Steve transfers her, then settles into Diana's arms, looks up at her, and slowly closes her eyes and falls asleep again. 

They're cat people now, apparently. 

* * *

Bast, as it turns out, is a very affectionate cat. She wants to be held, constantly, and when she isn't being held, will toddle up to one of her people and scream until they finally do pick her up. She also likes sleeping tucked up under Steve's chin, which Diana finds absolutely _hilarious_ because Steve is not—and has never been—a back sleeper, but now, more often than not, she finds him falling asleep on his back so as not to disturb Bast. 

Bast is most definitely Steve's cat, but she likes Diana well enough. Often, she perches on Diana's left shoulder when she's working on her laptop, and peers at the screen like she's reading the artifact dossiers too. 

Sometimes, if Diana is very lucky, Bast will curl up in her lap instead, nose still tucked into the curl of her tail, and purr. Most of the time, Bast perks up as soon as Steve gets home, and prances over to greet him with an affectionate headbutt. 

"I see how it is," Diana says, one day, when Bast lifts her head at a sound outside the door that turns out not to be Steve, and Diana _swears_ she looks disappointed. "You like him best." 

Bast simply looks at Diana with her big round eyes and blinks once, which Diana suspects is cat for 'duh'. 

"Oh, all right, I cannot blame you," Diana sighs, "I like him best too." 

Bast presents her chin, and Diana obliges her with a scritch. 

("That was a cat-kiss," Steve says later, of the blink, laughing. "Bast was basically telling you she loves and trusts you, and you thought it was _sass._ ") 

* * *

It's a perfectly ordinary day, and perfectly ordinary days are very easily ruined. 

For the day in question, it's the _We need to talk_ that shows up from Steve, causing Diana's nerves to go haywire. She really doesn't _think_ they're fighting about anything, but 'we need to talk' is universally a bad thing, right? They're usually pretty good about handling their problems in constructive ways, and they're excellent at talking through things, but there's a certain permanent ominous quality to 'we need to talk' that fills her with dread.

But when Diana unlocks her phone, she finds: _We need to talk about how adorable Bast is right now,_ along with a picture of the cat in question with her paws crossed over her eyes, and the tiniest tip of her tongue visible between her teeth, like she didn't quite pull it all the way in when she closed her mouth. 

Diana laughs, shows the picture to her interns, and sends back _She looks so angelic. Like she didn't start caterwauling at four a.m. this morning and wake me out of a dead sleep._

_She's a cat,_ replies Steve. _They're always perfect little angels, even when they're not._

"That cat has you wrapped around its paw," Diana says that afternoon, when she comes home to find Steve making a special meal for Bast. "That had better not be the hake I bought at the market this morning." 

"Of course it isn't. I filleted that and have the rest cooking down in the stock." He tilts his head toward the lidded pot on the stove. "This is just a little treat for being three months old." He says the last bit to Bast in a slightly sing-song voice. 

She loves this man, she really does. 

  
  


* * *

Diana is having a very long day and thinking about Bruce Wayne in a rather uncharitable way. (He is, after all, the reason she had to extend her business trip to the States and is not currently home with her husband and their cat.) She's dirty and tired, and trying desperately not to be bitter about it, because she doesn't approve of feeling bitter about things, when her phone buzzes. 

The setting it's on means that the text can only be from Steve, while everyone else is filtered out by 'do not disturb'. Checking her surroundings surreptitiously, she pulls out her phone. 

_Diana help I'm dying_ reads the preview and Diana's heart drops into her stomach, body immediately prepping for a supersonic flight and going into panic mode because she's too far away, an hour or two at least from whatever Steve has gotten himself into now— 

_Diana help I'm dying at how fricking cute Bast is and I need you to be too,_ Steve has written. _I can't even._ Underneath is a minute long video of Bast, and Diana nearly hurls her phone across the room before the relief takes over. She almost throws up as she comes down from the adrenaline spike, too. 

After a couple of deep breaths, Diana hits the dial button, and Steve picks up on the first ring, right as rain. 

"Did you watch it? Isn't she just the _best?_ " he exclaims. 

"You need to work on how you start your texts, Steve," she says instead of answering. "Do you know how it popped up on my phone? 'Diana help I'm dying.'" 

Steve sucks in a breath sharply enough that it's audible even across the tinny connection. "Oh, Gods. I'm so sorry, Diana." 

Between his contrition and the fact that he's clearly okay, Diana feels her anger evaporate. She can't count the number of times that Barry—just for example—has used 'I'm dying' or 'DEAD' or 'deceased' to indicate various emotions that are not death-based. It's only normal that Steve would pick it up. 

"No, I also overreacted," she admits. "I have not slept properly in two days and was not really thinking." 

"I'll still work on it," Steve promises. "Seriously, watch the video; she's such a weirdo. It'll make your day better." 

"Okay, I will."

"Hey, are you okay? Do you want to talk?" 

"I am just ready to be home," Diana says. "I really shouldn't talk now, but hopefully I will be home before morning." 

"Okay, Angel. Love you." 

"Love you too."

The call disconnects, and then Diana hits play on the video. It's shot in their kitchen, and it's dark enough out that Steve has the overhead light on. Bast is in the middle of the floor, spinning in circles chasing her tail, or maybe the shadow of her tail, Diana can't quite tell. She suppresses a laugh as Bast starts spinning the other way. Dammit, Steve's right. She really is cute. 

_Day brightened,_ Diana taps out. _Give her a kiss for me, we both know how much she loves those._

Two minutes later, a photo pops through of a very disgruntled looking Bast with the caption _'post-kiss'_ , and Diana squashes down another laugh. 

She's home by one in the morning, their time, and only has to move Bast a little bit to climb into bed next to Steve.

* * *

One of the reasons Diana was originally hesitant to get a cat was how much they both travel for work, and this month has been absolutely non-stop for her. In the past three weeks, it feels like she's only been home about three days. Fortunately, this is her last trip for another month (or at least, her last _scheduled_ trip; JL business has a nasty way of popping up at inconvenient times), and Steve's job has been largely quiet on the travel front, lately. 

She's got one more day to get through, and then it's just her normal job. She might even take a personal day or two. 

She's just about to go into another meeting when her phone buzzes. _Urgent! Read me NOW_ says the preview of Steve's message, and Diana immediately thumbs open her lockscreen, pausing before she enters the room, just in case she needs to dart back out. 

_We love you!_ ♥️💕 reads the rest of the message, and underneath is an attached photo of Steve and Bast. He's holding her up so that their faces are pressed together, and Bast has decided to be a perfect angel for Steve, looking directly into the camera. Diana swears she's even smizing next to Steve's own grin. 

_I know we talked about this,_ says another message that pops up while she's looking at the picture, _but we wanted to make sure you saw that right away._

And then, _We miss you_. 

A smile inches its way across her lips, and she sends back a quick selfie with a cat ears filter and a _miss you too_ scrawled along the bottom before ducking back into the meeting. 

* * *

It's Bast who hears her first, because when she opens the apartment door, Bast is sitting squarely in front of it. She lets out an indignant yowl, and then puts her front paws up on Diana's legs, asking to be picked up. 

Diana shoves her suitcase inside the door, closes it, and obliges, and Bast settles in against her chest. 

"She's clearly forsaken me," says Steve, who's just come out of the bedroom. "Hey you," he adds, leaning in over Bast to give her a kiss. 

"Give it five minutes," Diana replies, because even though the cat looks comfortable now, her moods are mercurial. 

"Mmm," Steve hums, clearly in agreement. "Hey, before I forget: can I see your phone?" 

She shifts Bast (who looks up at her reproachfully) so that she can free a hand and pull her phone out of her pocket to give to Steve. 

"I've been fiddling with mine, and I figured out how to turn the preview off of the push notification," he says. 

Diana lets out a startled laugh. "That's probably a more secure setting anyways," she says. "Go ahead. I look forward to the moment when every third text from you will no longer induce panic." 

"The future is now," Steve deadpans, and Diana has to set an affronted Bast down so that she can give Steve a proper hug, because she's glad to be home. 

* * *

The next morning, Diana sneaks out early to their favorite boulangerie for a couple of _pain aux raisins._ She's in line when her phone pings.

Swiping it open, she taps on the notification and sees (in full, this time, thankfully): _Mayday, mayday, mayday, the cat has taken your spot._ There's Bast—stretched out so long across the bed that it almost looks like someone put her on a medieval torture rack—looking very pleased with herself because she's taken up the entire half of the bed that is Diana's. 

A small smile creeps over her face as she steps forward to order. She's got a spot to reclaim, a cat to snuggle, and a husband to kiss good morning; she hasn't got any time to waste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	4. the honeycomb will taste sweeter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An important conversation goes slightly awry, but Diana and Steve manage to get back on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a few months after "Hades' gift" but before the other chapters.
> 
> Quote taken from Wonder Woman (2017); I don't own it, it's just the sandbox I play in.

* * *

> **_You go before a judge and you swear to love, honor, and cherish each other until death do you part._ **
> 
> _And_ _do they? Love each other 'til death?_
> 
> **_Not very often. No._ **
> 
> _Then why do they do it?_
> 
> **_I have no idea._ **

* * *

"Have you ever seriously considered getting married?" 

Diana looks up, vaguely startled by the question. It's after dinner, and Steve's been back a few months, now. They've spent almost every evening talking about everything under the sun (and plenty of things beyond); while the question is sensitive and personal, she supposes it's a natural extension of all that's come before. 

She takes a second to figure out how best to answer, because her opinions about what marriage is have not necessarily been those of the outside world. 

"Sort of," says Diana, and at his curious look, she sighs heavily. "Her name was Victoria, and at the time a legal marriage would not have been possible, but we considered a ceremony."

By the look on his face, she can tell that he already knows it didn't end well. She's mentioned Victoria's name once or twice in her stories, but she's never had a long-term starring role. 

"We were happy, for a while," Diana continues, looking out the window, her voice suddenly far away. "And then I told her who I was." Her smile is sad; it's a bittersweet memory, now. "She wanted to grow old together, and I could not give her that. It was not—" The _you_ begs to be said, but instead she says, "—a sweeping, all-encompassing love, but it hurt when we parted ways all the same." 

It's the perfect opening for what needs to come next, the conversation that Diana didn't want to have, the one she's absolutely been putting off. She looks skyward unhappily, eyes glassy with tears, but she soldiers on. "I would not begrudge you for wanting that for yourself. I have been remiss in telling you this. I just wanted to hold on to you for a little bit, before I let you go." 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Steve rushes to say. "Back up. That's not what this is about _at all_." 

"But maybe it _should_ be. I cannot grow old with you," Diana says, plainly, like it physically hurts. "We will never be able to sit on a porch swing, comparing the aches in our bones and the grey in our hair."

"That sounds boring anyways," Steve says flippantly, because it does, and because he's trying to lighten her mood just a little. "Diana," he presses, more seriously when it doesn't work, "that doesn't _matter_ to me. It's the being with you that matters." 

It's everything she wants to hear, and everything she's scared to let herself hope for. But she's worried that he doesn't understand all of the implications of what he's saying, all the ways that life wouldn't look normal. "You would be giving up so much," she whispers. "I cannot ask that of you." 

"Of me?" he echoes. Something flashes in Steve’s eyes, and he rocks forward, strokes a piece of Diana’s hair out of her face, and she can't help but lean into his touch. “Oh Diana, once upon a time, I wished we had more time, and now we do. I'm not going to waste it, and I'm certainly not going to leave because I'll get grey and you won't. You're not asking it of me if it's what I want." 

No sooner have the words left his mouth than she sees something flick through her eyes, and he's speaking again, low and desperate. “Unless—unless you don't want to watch me age and die. I won't be offended.”

She's shaking her head almost subconsciously before the words have even finished spilling from his mouth, and reaches out to press a hand to his cheek.

"I want all the time with you I can get."

His eyes soften in delight and his mouth turns up in that lopsided smile of his that she loves so much. "Good, then it's settled." 

Steve kisses her forehead, and then her nose, because it always makes her laugh, and is clearly pleased to find that today is no different. She leans in for a proper kiss, and their idle discussions are done for the evening. 

* * *

Steve is pretty sure that he hasn't felt panic so acutely as he did when Diana was talking about _letting him go_ since he was deposited in the 21st century. There he was, just leading up to a discussion about whether formal marriage was something she'd be interested in, and suddenly she was talking about them _not_ being together? 

(Because that's why he'd instigated the conversation: he'd been hoping to find out whether Diana was amenable to marriage as a concept.)

The conversation was worth it, despite the momentary heart attack, not only because the answer is _yes,_ she's amenable to the general concept, but because they managed to clear up something he hadn't even realized was bothering her. Communication is key, honestly.

So now, it's really just a question of when he wants to ask Diana and how, and then hope like hell she says yes. 

For some people, a big, public, dramatic proposal may be the way to go, but that's not Steve and Diana at all. Steve mulls it over for a while, and then one evening just realizes—with stunning certainty, in the middle of doing dishes—that he doesn't want to wait any longer. Time, after all, is precious, and not something with which they've had much luck. 

Diana's in the study reading when Steve comes in, and he takes a moment just to watch her, emotion welling in his chest at the simplicity of the scene before him: Diana, legs tucked under her, sporting a chunky knit sweater that looks like it might be a relic from the 80s, a mug of tea on the end table and book in her lap, absentmindedly twirling a curl around her finger as she reads. 

“How about the marriage part of that non wartime routine?” falls out of his mouth almost without his control as he crosses the room to her. 

It's not smooth, but it hardly matters because it clearly doesn't register as a serious question on her part. (They'll laugh about it, later, for years to come, both his approach and her reaction.) She doesn't even look up from her book, just quips, “I heard from a reliable source that it doesn't usually end in love until death do thee part." There's a small smile on her face, though, like maybe she's remembering the sway of the boat that first night and the conversation that happened by starlight when they were still feeling each other out. 

“Diana,” he says, and the serious tone in his voice forces her to actually look up from her book. She meets his eyes with such sudden intensity that everything else drops away, and it almost makes him forget the rest of the world exists, forget the way he's on his knees next to her. 

(Well, one, to be exact.)

“Will you marry me?” 

There's a moment, a heartbeat, where she's silent, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, and then, "Are you sure?"

Steve blinks. "Yeah," he says, inelegantly, and then, softer, once his brain catches up, "I get it now. I didn't, on the boat, but I _get it_ now." 

He sees the moment she comes out of her stupor, sees her process the memory attached to his words, sees the moment she makes her decision, sees her eyes fill with resolution and—love. 

"It is easy to understand, with you."

It's ever so cliché, but his heart soars. "I love you, Diana. Is that a yes?"

The grin that splits her face is radiant and so, so endearing. For a moment, he sees the last century melt away, sees the hopeful, starry-eyed girl he met by accident on an island so long ago, the one who restored his hope and his faith. The one that keeps doing those things. She nods, all wide, shining eyes and happily curling lips. And this time, this time she has the time—the leisure—to say it back. 

“I love you, too.”

* * *

(They opt for a small gathering to celebrate—just a couple of friends in the back garden of a little country cottage Diana has owned since the fifties, watching them grin madly at each other and spill their hearts in self-written vows full of inside jokes and sentimentality. It's fun and perfect, and neither Steve nor Diana is in possession of a dry eye by the time it's all said and done. 

As a rule, Diana doesn't ask for promises anymore. They're too easily broken. 

But Steve stands in front of her, eyes twinkling, and promises to love her, and she believes him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from traditional celtic wedding vows because they're beautiful. 
> 
> I had SO much trouble with this because originally that first conversation happened within the second conversation, but then I re-formatted because I'm just so vehemently of the opinion that in healthy relationships, couples talk about marriage/are on the same page before any proposal happens. I'm waving my hands and calling it enough because: Fiction™, and because I have one more little vignette that's already done that I want to post. Lmao I'm a mess, thanks for hanging in with me.


	5. Hades' gift, revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hades brought Steve back, his gift was not as simple and straightforward as it seemed. This is how Steve and Diana figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular posting schedule? --> [I don't know her.gif]
> 
> Fluff with the tiniest hint of angst midway thru. Happy endings, of course. Enjoy!

It's not obvious, at first. 

It's not obvious for well over a decade, actually. 

The first hint comes—not apparent until examined in retrospect—when Diana notices that Bast has a few white hairs in her chin that weren't there before. 

It's normal in cats, as they age. (Bast—the stubborn old biddy that she is—will, in fact, go on to live another twelve-and-a-half years, and remain spry and active for most of that time, proving herself, yet again, to be an exceptional housecat.) Indeed, cats go a bit grey 'round the mouth, same as humans go a bit grey 'round the temples. 

Steve has a few grey hairs along his temples, had them even back in 1918. He claimed, years ago, that it had been the War, sending him to an early grave in more ways than one (she'd winced), but Diana knows from visiting his family after he died the first time that his father went prematurely grey, too. 

The point is that Steve has _some_ grey hairs, but he doesn't have any _new_ grey hairs. The thought crosses her mind, absent, but it's fleeting. Maybe she rationalizes that Steve was right, that it was just the stress of the War, or maybe it just flits right back out of her mind, gone on a whim the same way it had entered. 

* * *

The second clue, maybe, looking back, is an envious comment from one of Steve's ARGUS colleagues.

"God, it's so unfair how good you still look," says Constantine, complaining to Steve after a mission as they change into civilian clothes. "What are you, forty-six? Forty-seven?" 

"A hundred and forty-eight, thanks," jokes Steve, as he shrugs on his sweater. "I think the word you're looking for is _distinguished_." 

Except, it's not, really. _Distinguished_ is the sort of word people use about older men, to save their ego and make them feel better about the normal process that is aging. _Distinguished_ would mean Steve probably didn't have the same endurance and muscle mass and lack of wrinkles he did a decade ago, when he does. 

But he trains hard (he and Diana work out together, and that always pushes him to go the extra mile) and takes care of himself, physically and mentally. It's not _that_ strange. 

* * *

And then Steve wakes up in a hospital bed. 

He's feeling a little beat up, but nothing that feels like it warrants what appears to be a room in the ICU. 

"Oh, good, you are awake." Diana had apparently been by his bedside, reading, because she carefully tucks a bookmark into the volume and sets it aside to focus on him. 

"About that," says Steve. "Why was I asleep?" He sort of remembers being out in the field, but it gets a little hazy. Someone probably clocked him on his head, and they need to make sure he doesn't have a concussion. 

"You took a bullet to the abdomen," Diana explains, clinically. "Through and through, it missed your internal organs. The doctors are confident you will make a full recovery." 

She doesn't need to say _I was worried_. It's clear, although she looks pretty composed; the prognosis must have been positive from the start, or as positive as bullet wounds can be.

"Wait a second, a bullet?" Steve asks in confusion. See, he'd been shot, point blank, back in December of 1915, and had another bullet graze him seven months later. "That can't be right. I've had bullet wounds and this does not feel like _that_." 

The side of Diana's mouth kicks up just a little. "My love, you are on morphine right now. Nothing feels like it should." 

Except Steve doesn't _feel_ like he's on morphine either, and he also knows what that's like. (They were a lot quicker to give you a dose in 1918 than they are now.) 

Instead, he investigates. There's a thick bandage across his abdomen that he peels back, against Diana's protests, only to find a puckered, slightly pinkish scar. It looks _weeks_ old, maybe months. 

"Have I been in a medically induced coma or something?" he inquires, freaking out a little bit, only to look up and find shock, pure and simple, written across Diana's face. 

"That was five hours ago," she says, faintly. "You were shot five hours and eighteen minutes ago." 

"Well," says Steve dryly, looking down once more at the barely-there wound, then fastidiously covering it back up, "that's neat." 

He refuses all further treatment and signs the discharge papers an hour later, because no one needs to see this miraculous recovery, or have proof of it. 

By the time they get home, the scar is silvery and fading, like it's been there for years. At this rate, his skin will be an unmarred expanse by tomorrow morning. 

"This is not normal, right?" confirms Steve. "This is a _you_ response to a bullet wound, not a _me_ response to a bullet wound."

_A you response to a bullet wound._

It all snaps together in stunning clarity. 

"Hades?" says Diana warily, directly into the æther. 

There's a beat, and Diana thinks maybe nothing will come of it, but then between one blink and the next, Hades is lounging in the chair across from her, pinstripe suit absolutely pristine. 

"You rang?" he smirks. 

It's a testament to Steve's general unflappability and the strange lives they lead that he doesn't so much as flinch at this development. (Across the room, Bast picks up her head with mild interest, but ultimately ignores the newcomer.) 

"My husband just took a bullet to the stomach and walked away without so much as a trace." 

"So you finally noticed," Hades says, smug as can be, and—now that she thinks about it—rightly so. "You didn't think I'd send him back without some upgrades, did you?" 

Diana blinks. "Upgrades?"

"Right," says Steve, jumping in. "I had passable history knowledge and could code but—"

"I'm sorry, you think that's all I did?" asks Hades with a snort. "Please, give me some credit. You had a disturbing death rate, and that's coming from _me._ I wasn't about to resurrect you just to have you die on my niece three days later." He looks mildly affronted, and Diana realizes two things at once, and finds herself unsure which is more surprising. 

The first is that Steve is immortal, or maybe just temporarily death-proof. 

The second is that Hades actually, genuinely _cares._ (Is there protocol for dealing with your semi-not-estranged godly uncle?) 

She zeros back in on the conversation in time to hear, "—you'll find you have the lifespan of the average minor god, but you're not _unkillable,_ even by mortal standards, so do have some care." 

"Definitely cooler than the coding," quips Steve, and Hades smiles and gives him an indulgent little nod, before catching Diana's gaze. 

_"Thank you,"_ says Diana softly in Ancient Greek, still reeling from this development. _"How can I possibly repay you for this kindness?"_

 _"It was I who was fulfilling a debt,"_ replies Hades. _"And I—I know how I would feel if it was Persephone."_

It leaves Diana speechless, and then Hades says, in English this time, "Take care, both of you. I'm _sure_ we'll see each other again." 

And then he's gone, as though he simply melted into a shadow. 

"You know," says Steve, conversationally, breaking the silence, "I wish I could say that this was the craziest day I've ever had, but honestly, it's barely breaking top five." 

"Seriously?" If her tone is incredulous, it's only because she cannot think of a situation on par with this one. 

"Well," Steve muses. "There was the day I met you, and the day I met Ares, and then there was the incident in Botswana..." 

They spend the rest of the evening debating the relative merits of their craziest days, and creating a definitive list of how each should rank. 

* * *

"You know," says Steve, later, "I guess now we will sort of be able to grow old together, in our own way." 

It's a beautiful notion, the kind that creates an ache in her chest from how breathtaking it is. 

Somehow, inexplicably, a God got their gift right twice over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the conclusion (for now, haha, I have trouble letting go) to this little 'verse! Comments and kudos always welcome :+)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments/kudos always appreciated.


End file.
